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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372680">there is no me without you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/malreves/pseuds/malreves'>malreves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, it’s just sad, no i am not sorry, ready 2 die, set between book 17 and 19 of the iliad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:47:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/malreves/pseuds/malreves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His mouth tasted bitter. Acrid and dry, his thirst could drain the Aegean. Thanatos had not come for him, a fate far crueler had claimed his final breaths.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there is no me without you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/solisaureus/gifts">solisaureus</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish he had let you all die. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mouth tasted bitter. Acrid and dry, his thirst could drain the Aegean. Thanatos had not come for him, a fate far crueler had claimed his final breaths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patroclus’ bottom lip was smeared with blood so dark, it was as though Achilles had painted it with a brush of the wine dark sea, and left the defiant flourish there to dry. There was an ugly blooming bruise, bloodied across his forehead; the rest the skin of his scalp torn in crests and waves from Hector’s reaches across the chasm of Aegeans that had protected Patroculs’ body from the fate that now befell the very man who had had set into motion the end of the war. The puncture wound from the spear was ugly, black and distended with blood and Achilles couldn’t tear his eyes from it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soot smeared across his face, his tunic, his hair, filled the air around him with the ghost of smoke. The ghost of death hung in the room, smothering Achilles with its grip. Death lay in his lap, fresh and ready to be released from this world in a pyre, ferocious and bright. But Achilles wouldn’t let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were alone. The wails of women echoed in the wind surrounding his tent. The bone deep cries of anguish– Patroclus had been the best of them all, after all. He had loved them all, taken care of each of them; Achilles most of all. Those precious days on the mountain top, in the tent that housed them now, on the beaches that surrounded his father’s palace. Desperate grasps at an eternity they would never have, a peacefulness that had evaded them in Thetis’ quest for glory. And Achilles would have scored it all for one last breath to pass between those lips to press his love to his chest and shield him from Hector’s murderous spear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Briesis had begged him, bargained with him, pleaded with him– tried desperately to clean Patroclus’ body and burn his funeral pyre so grand it would be seen all the way in Pythia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Odysseus had tried to, to talk sense into him? Calm him down? Return him from whatever edge he had walked himself to the moment the words had reached his ears that Patroclus was dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What has Hector ever done to me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hector had taken everything from him, what did Achilles have left? There was nothing worth living for, the world had lost its delight, its fervor. The world had become bleak and unwelcoming, a mighty stranger. To follow Patroclus, to find him in Hades and hold him in his arms again, what bliss. What else was there? Slay Hector in revenge and let the war take him, as it had taken so many others. There would be an end to this anguish, an end to his suffering. There would be an end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Achilles smoothed his hands over Patroclus’ chest. His skin was cold to the touch under the thin tunic he had worn under his armor, stiff and bloated. He traced the lines of his muscles, counted his ribs one by one, memorized the feeling of Patroclus under his hands one last time. The wound was no longer bleeding, but Patroclus had always been the better of the two of them to dress and tend to that sort of thing. Achilles had watched, fascinated, as Chiron had taught Patroclus, bit by bit, medicine, surgery, and healing. His hands skimmed the puckered flesh, flitted over the crusted blood. He traced his fingers down and felt the crest of Patroclus’ hip, the solid strength of his thigh. He felt the curve of his knee, the slender path of his shin, the knob of his ankle, the flatness of his foot. The first tears caught him by surprise, making dark spots against the dingy color of Patroclus’ tunic, but then they became a torrent. A wave so tall it cannot be outrun, only succumbed to. The sobs wrack his chest, and he shuddered with the effort of a breath, the effort to suck in air and continue to be, continue to live in a world without Patroclus. His vision blurred and he pressed the rise of his palms against his eyes, tasting salt on his lips, mingling with the metallic. It is over. It is done. He is gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Achilles laid beside his fallen love and twined his fingers with Patroclus’. The body is cold beside him, unresponsive. Achilles pulled the arm across him in a parody of an embrace; Patroclus’ body shifts in Achilles’ grip, slides to lay across his torso, fingers reaching past his shoulder. There was no breath that ghosts in his ear, but the memory of it remains. Patroclus’ hair ticked Achilles’ neck, his beard brushed against the soft skin of his cheek. If not for how cold the body was beside him, Achilles could almost make believe that this was real, that Patroclus had merely fallen asleep, splayed out beside him. If not for the lack of breath to fill his lungs, warmth cresting across his cheeks, lips pursed in sleep. He saw the memories of thousands of nights spent just like this, held in his lover's embrace, and willed himself to imagine the warmth in the body beside him. He can almost pretend, but not quite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sleep like that, in their play at an embrace, in their play at life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, Achilles will ask his mother for armor to slay the protector of Troy, the glorious Hector. Tomorrow, he will fight his way to the city, through river gods and soldiers alike, leaving a path of destruction in his wake. Tomorrow, he will pray to the gods to take his life so that he may be reunited with his love. But that is tomorrow; tonight, he holds the cold body of his lover and prays for Thanatos’ quick knife. He is destined for greatness but he only knows pain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The most dangerous thing is to love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanatos is the greek god of a peaceful death! this is for my gf to make them cry. <br/>hmu on <a>le twit</a> to cry some more</p></blockquote></div></div>
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